One Reluctant Matchmaker
by Merthedil Contril
Summary: An (un?) eventful morning for Mikhail.
1. A Coffeetable Heaven

Hey, everybody! This time around, I'm trying to write some Mik, because I notice very little fanfiction from his point of view. If you think I'm not in character too terribly well, please put it in the review. Any review is appreciated, except for undue flames for writing for Boy Meets Boy. Oh, and apologies to the dialogue of the Disembodied Voice – I was beginning to take the Matrix Reloaded spoof a step too far.  
  
Warning: Sandrah Delete owns all of Boy Meets boy, the characters, everything. I swear. … I don't own a single piece of anything, not counting an attachment to a certain couple. … No! Really! … I guess what I'm trying to say is, "Please don't sue me."  
  
1: A Coffee Table Heaven  
  
Long, flowing poetry. Ah, yes, this is what life is supposed to be about. The sweet rhythm and life that is found in the writings of the grandest of poets, from Sappho to Robert Frost. Just sitting in my favorite chair in the apartment, drinking my Chai tea, and imagining that the ferret beset upon my feet isn't chewing at my right big toenail.  
  
  
  
Ironic that it was that said ferret would decide that the nail wasn't good enough for its needle-sharp teeth, and bit down at the quick. Despite my engrossment in the poetry book I was reading, quite a few curses issued forth from my mouth in the space of two seconds. Lurching forward to grab the offending rodent, perhaps I forgot my counterbalance, and lo and behold, my forehead met quite intimately with the edge of the coffee table. The lights went out, albeit temporarily.  
  
  
  
---  
  
Awakening to bright, bright lights, I muttered several curse words, cursing not only Harley's ferret but the fact that I had insisted that the coffee table be so close to my favorite chair for easy access to coffee-table books.  
  
"Ironic, is it not?" Issued forth a voice. "The mere instance of this one incident, seemingly interwoven in upon a life beset with "accident" after gloom-causing "accident"?" Immediately I thought it was the voice of the person I least wanted to talk to right now.  
  
"… Am I … Dead?" I said, the bright light not showing a single atom of color, not a hint of hue or shade, but blindingly white light. At least, blinding to normal human eyes. I hardly even felt the urge to blink, despite the sheer blankness of my surroundings.  
  
"Ah, not so, Mikhael. Dead is merely a state of being, really. You're not in your normal surroundings, am I quite correct?" Issued forth the voice. "Yes, that's it. Oh, don't be so surprised. I can quite easily read your thoughts, after all – I'm the Architect that made them."  
  
"Oh, Christ. Are you spoofing the Matrix Reloaded?" I groaned. It just seemed like what would happen to me. I was in no mood for this spoofing, in no mood to be (probably) passed out on the floor, and in no mood for all of this being caused by a stupid ferret.  
  
"No, I most certainly am not. I'll try to stop talking like him. I didn't really like him. Ugh. I merely wanted to point out an error of your ways – perhaps you should be paying attention to some of Harley's friends. They're not such bad people when you get to know them."  
  
Despite the fact this was probably some hallucination from a blow to the head, judging by this disembodied voice's banter, this was starting to … annoy me. "Okay, what's the big deal? Am I supposed to be like in those movies, the ones where the constantly self-centered guy ends up getting a second chance, some weird plot where he ends up being the upstanding guy that fixes someone's life or plays matchmaker?"  
  
Despite his incorporeal form, I could feel an amusing realization emanating from whomever was speaking with me. "Why, yes. That's a great idea! Why didn't /I/ think of that?!" I cringed, realizing that I had probably given whoever (or whatever) this was some ammo for his arsenal. "Well, let's see … Haven't you noticed anything lately about that pincushion of a drummer?"  
  
Even without a body, I could feel my brow furrow. Cyanide, that angst-ridden, overbearing, far-too-many-bodily-piercing jerk of a band member? "Uuh … not much, no … he's been kind of angst-ridden. … Come to think of it, more than usual."  
  
I could feel the voice still being amused, but perhaps a little bit more resignedly. "… And you'd say that he's … depressed-angst-ridden, or just the normal angry-angst-ridden?" The voice was letting go of any illusion of grandeur about him (I assume it was him, I couldn't really tell by the voice besides that it was very much booming.)  
  
I blinked. I actually had no idea. Lately he had been moping around at his own apartment, and Harley was worried sick about him, constantly wondering if he should go over and figure out what was wrong, but he failed to ever find out. Skids had been nowhere to be found so far, and despite my misgivings about the band playing while I was trying to work, it was niggling at the back of my mind that both of them were failing to show up to practice.  
  
"Wait a second, are you saying that Cyanide's in trouble?"  
  
---  
  
And then I woke up with Harley's nail-biting ferret curled up on my chest, and the smell of its musk permeating my good sweater. But with this new pounding headache, I didn't really care. Was it a hallucination, some weird dream I had? I had absolutely no idea. But that damn ferret, as soon as it realized I was awake, resumed to biting my toenail.  
  
… Dammed rodent. 


	2. AHunting We Will Go, or Mik Stubles Upon...

Hello, good people of FFN! Here I am again, writing sappy fanfiction. Although, believe me, it's out of character for me.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: All rights, characters, and thus props, go to Sandrah K. Fuhr, AKA Sandrah Delete. I am getting absolutely no financial gain from writing this - in fact, my net worth is probably going down when I write bad fanfiction like this. Thus, please do not sue me. Sandrah, all of the props that I may gain from writing this go directly to you ... after I brag about them openly on some little-known message board. But that's the way it works, eh?  
  
Chapter 2:"A-hunting We Will Go", or "Mik Stumbles Upon his Quarry"   
  
  
  
This is so stupid. Ugh. My thoughts were pretty much something along those lines when I reached Cyanide's front step. I looked back down at the piece of paper in my hands; I'd copied the address from Harley's Little Black Book, of sorts - really his address book. But I liked commenting on its color, and was almost always rewarded with a light punch in the shoulder, followed by much tickle fighting.  
  
But now I really wished I were home, despite my misgivings about Harley's ferret.  
  
My idea that he lived alone was shattered by some childish-sounding laughter, followed by a few THUNK noises, and the sound of a mother chiding her children. Nothing like family, after all. I contemplated knocking on the door when I heard some familiar voices from the courtyard area. I looked down, noticing two rather familiar forms standing there.  
  
One, clothed in all black leather, spiky black hair denoting his appearance. The person I was looking for. He was worried about something, but the other figure below couldn't see it properly. With a backwards-facing baseball cap and hair sticking out the front, I could certainly tell that it was Skids.  
  
"... So, when are you going to tell him?"  
  
"I don't know, really. I've had this crush for a really long time, and I don't want to break up this friendship I have with him ..."  
  
I started getting a very strange sense of déjà vu as I overheard their conversation.  
  
  
  
"Well, Skids, uhh ... How should I put this? He already /has/ a boyfriend."  
  
"... Yeah, I know that. But ... I just can't get over it."  
  
  
  
After a few seconds, I remembered where this conversation was from. The elevator ... Oh, God. This is what was causing all this angsty brooding-ness. Or maybe it was 'Sheequa leaving the band. Who knew with these 19-year-olds? I heaved a frustrated sigh, but I still heard snippets of their conversation.  
  
"Dude, you have to. Hell, they're getting married soon enough!" Cyanide's anger sounded tinged with something I used to be quite familiar with - regret? Remorse? Resentment? I couldn't quite place it. ... But who the hell were they referring to?   
  
Skids provided me with just that.  
  
"But, damn it all. I really loved Harley... I loved him."  
  
"... Skids, you do know he loves Mik, right?" Cyanide spoke much softer than I ever heard before. In fact, I had to strain my ears "There is a bunch of people out there that you're sure you're in love with, but you know that they'll never really love you back. There are just so many out there that are breaking hearts without ever even realizing it ..." 


	3. Mik's Head Hurts

Hello, good people of fanficdom! I apologize for both the utter sappiness and poor formatting of the last chapter - my computer seems to be having some issues with its Wordpad .txt formatting. Aside from that, I hope this chapter is more to your liking, and the formatting bugs will be squished! As a major side note, thanks to all of you who have reviewed, and I hope this chapter will meet your standards!  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: All of the stuff involved with, and generally affiliated with, Boy Meets Boy is the intillectual property of Sandrah K. Fuhr, AKA Sandrah Delete. She gets props for this. However, I don't own anything involved with, or affilliated with, Boy Meets Boy, with the exception of a fangirlish enjoyment of said series. Thus, I am writing this fanfiction of my own free will, and I hereby declare that I own none of this. So, please don't sue me.  
  
  
  
Chapter 3: Mik's Head Hurts.  
  
I sat back down in the very chair all of this started in. Thoughts were running rampant through my brain. Was Skids really in love with Harley, or was it infatuation? Did Harley have any idea at all what was going on? Was Cyanide hurt because he was now in the middle of a convoluted love triangle?  
  
On top of this confusion, I also felt guilty for having overheard the entire conversation. More to the point, guilty that I had strained to hear Cyanide's last words before they started for a stairwell, and I bolted down another. I got home in something of a blue haze, and I didn't even exactly remember my half-hearted greeting to Allen downstairs.  
  
  
  
My head hurt terribly now, and I couldn't blame it on my pseudo-minor-concussion. I didn't want to tell Harley what was going on and muddle things up for Skids, which by proxy was muddling things for Cyanide as well. But there were so few people that I could go to for advice on matters of this nature …  
  
  
  
I mentally ran through my list of possible sources for advice. As previously stated, Harley was pretty much out of the picture. Similarly was 'Sheequa, because she was a member of the band, I didn't know her all that well, and she would probably make far too many quirks about being stuck in a gay version of Blink 182.  
  
Tabitha and Allen were out of the picture mainly because, well, … they're creepy. None of my 'art friends' would give me decent advice, either due to their lack of real experience with other people or they would turn it into some metaphor for how much life sucked.  
  
I was stumped. I decided I needed a person who knew relationships. Preferably one who understood internally-homophobic-man-wants-man situations, too. One who had some finesse at romance and mending a broken heart … Who the Hell did I know that was like that?  
  
Ruminating internally on my dilemma, I didn't even notice a certain offending household ferret that was back to her sovereign duty: gnawing on my toenails. I sighed exasperatedly, and reached down to pick up her up, albeit less violently this time around. Remembering her name, I started out something along the lines of, "Cordelia, What the Hell am I going to do with those two?"  
  
Petting Cordelia for a while, I mulled the entire situation over. I didn't even especially know why I was so worried about those two, but I guess they'd rubbed off on me some. But, well, I remembered a time in my life when I had grandiose crushes on guys I knew would never want me, but I wanted them nonetheless. If someone had been there to tell me, "Mik, it'll get better. I know, cause I've been there" I probably would have felt a lot better about all of it.  
  
Skids and Cyanide just got about 3 times more complicated to me that day, and my brain already didn't want to stay up much longer. So, petting the resident furry critter, I fell asleep in my favorite chair, probably snoring like Harley always says I do.  
  
I never really remember my dreams all that vividly. All that I remember when I woke up was a strange sense of foreboding. When I gained some semblance of cognition of my surroundings, I knew why.  
  
  
  
Harley had tried to cook again. He always tries his hardest, but he's nowhere nearly as cooking-inclined as his sister. I enjoy the thought behind it, what with the blackened toast in his breakfasts in bed. But most of the time Tabitha ends up coming over, eerily happy and noting that the smell reminds her of home.  
  
That woman scares me much of the time.  
  
But back to the task at hand, I groggily got up from the chair and zombie-walked over to the kitchen. Harley looked like he already had the fire mostly under control, judging by the fire extinguisher in one hand. He looked so dejected, and it looked like he had been trying to make cream cake. I gave him a hug from behind, and the somewhat sleepy question of "Hello, lovely. How was your day?"  
  
Harley giggled at the question, despite the pretty obvious display that at least one part of it didn't go so well. "Oh, same old, same old. I had to go to the music store down the street after my fourth string broke. On top of that, there was some new sheet music from a musical or two you might like to hear a la Harley." I murred at this, glad that Harley was around …  
  
  
  
Harley turned around and laughed, and scruffled my hair a little bit. "You look like Hell, dude." I had to say that it was kind of crappy compared to what I normally try to keep up. "You slept in your clothes, too?"  
  
I laughed, although a little hollowly.  
  
"Well, I don't know what happened .." Harley pulled some of my disheveled hair away from my forehead, and kissed my bruised forehead. "… But I think you definitely need some cheering up. Let's go to the couch and watch some TV."  
  
I smirked a little at that. "Buffy's on tonight, isn't it?" 


	4. Sloshed, For Better or For Worse

I woke up the next morning to find Harley gone. The only lingering traces that he had ever been in bed was his smell, and a little note explaining he was going guitar shopping with one of those coming-and-going weirdoes. I think it was … Fox?  
  
  
  
I sighed, and breathed in that scent deeply into my lungs. I had missed him often over the course of the past few days; Harley being the one busy with the band's gig at the bar and the smaller instrumental gig at our reception … Luckily I had finished the plans for the commitment ceremony, not only single-handedly signing on the best catering service in the city and getting a penthouse conference room at the Hilton, but also managed to sway the hotel management to rent me the Honeymoon Suite for significantly less than it was valued for.   
  
Busy week it already had been, and with the ceremony two days away it wasn't going to slow down any time soon. Harley and I would meet at the local tuxedo place with some other guys to get suits fitted for the occasion, among other things. The flowers, the second instrumental act wasn't exactly set in stone, the catering service wanted to know what color suit they should wear. I'd be damned if I didn't have a full itinerary for the day.   
  
Very clumsily I got up and scratched my side liberally. Tottering rather groggily towards the bathroom at the other end of the hallway, I smelled the coffeepot doing its magic. Harley does so many things for me, I have no idea where I'd be without him. Grumbling something about the fact that the shower isn't closer to the bed, I reached the bathroom door.  
  
Now, mind you, I am a morning person in absolutely no meaning of the word. And yet when I thought I heard the ever-so-slight noise of something breaking the relative silence, I froze in my tracks, almost entirely wide-awake. Maybe it was an inherent fear of a person being in the house without my knowledge, or maybe the petty annoyance that I might have left the TV on. But as I listened more intently, I heard the very distinct sound of   
  
… Of someone crying.  
  
For a second I did what would be known as one of my patented "confused-as-Hell" stances, turning around for the bedroom. I had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, I wanted my pants on for it. I know, I know. There might have been some creep in my bedroom, ready to stab my eyeballs out. At least, that's what I've gathered from Harley's late-night horror movies, not to mention some of the bloodier episodes of Buffy.  
  
Regardless, now with the pants of the night before, I stalked almost-silently around the apartment, trying to ascertain where the sobbing was coming from. Prowling from the kitchen, denying myself my coffee, I finally pieced together that the sound wasn't even coming from inside the house. In fact, it was coming from the other side of the apartment door.  
  
I tried looking through the spyhole, but all I could see were two legs jutting away from a central crux located up against the door. Judging by the way the door was moving back and forth slightly, and the fact the sobbing had died down to near silence, I figured they were going through dry raking sobs. Very gently I opened up the door a crack, and managed to see none other than the fabric of a black leather jacket.  
  
Only one person that I know of would be sobbing like that in front of Harley's door with a leather jacket and nail polish that black. He wasn't even really responding to whatever was going on around him, I wasn't exactly sure if he was drunk or incredibly upset or both. In any case, I decided I should do something, say something.  
  
"… Cy?" I asked as gently as I could. His body went slightly more rigid, and I opened up the door further. He got up and turned around, excruciatingly slowly, and I saw exactly how upset he was.  
  
Cyanide's eyes were always angry or at least somewhat mulled over when I was around him. I guess it was something to cover up what tenderness he had left inside; something to show the world that he was jaded like the rest of him when in fact he was not entirely. This time, however, his eyes were red and puffy, and tears were still running freely down his cheeks despite the fact he no longer had the energy to sob.  
  
"Hey, Mik." He must have been out of it. His voice was warbling with some show of strain, and I could smell a whiff of Jack Daniel's on his breath.  
  
Without even having to ask, I extended a hand. He clambered up to his feet, with a little tilt-and-gain here and there. I couldn't even really understand what was there, what was off … there was indeed something far different from his usual apathetic demeanor. Beside the crying, of course. Even beside the smell of booze, despite the fact that he was a social drinker.  
  
He stumbled through the door, and shuffled somewhat half-heartedly towards the kitchen. I guess he was trying to form some sort of apologetic expression. Through the haze of the alcohol running through his system, as soon as he started losing concentration on his walking as he tried to formulate this complex facial expression, he was thrown off-balance.  
  
Apparently that tip of the balance was all that was required for his stomach to empty its contents on the linoleum floor of the kitchen.  
  
A mopping up and facial cleanup later, I found myself with a significantly less horrid-looking Cyanide about an hour or so later. It was odd of me to not try to start any conversation yet, but there was something about it that seemed like it wasn't to be talked about on a full-blown hangover.  
  
I managed to pull a few strings here and there, getting the quartet booked for the ceremony, the tuxedo figures pulled up for myself, and I left a message on Skid's answering machine to send my apologies and a bouquet of roses to Harley's at the tuxedo place. I was sorry to have cancelled on him, after all – and I was going to bring him to brunch afterwards, so I gave Skids full permission to commence Operation: Sidetrack Harley to make sure he didn't suspect I was bailing out on him to watch basketball.  
  
With all of my scheduling accomplished for the day over the phone, and after taking a shower, I walked back into the kitchen. Cyanide was drinking from a cup of coffee, and apparently somewhat more sober, judging by his better-coordinated movements.  
  
Now came the talking part …  
  
"Cyanide, what were you doing on my front door drunk?"  
  
Did I ever say I learned the art of being subtle? 


End file.
